Stages on Life’s Way

by Søren Kierkegaard

  There is something profoundly comic in this misrelation. Every human being is indeed permitted to swear by God. Ethical categories are usually employed in forming an opinion of the conduct of the one swearing, that he either is of the truth or is a hypocrite. But this approach is utterly inadequate and can do great wrong, for such an individual might indeed just be comic. Otherwise I can make nothing of it. It is adequate even when I take a more eminent example. When the Pharisee in the Gospel is portrayed as a hypocrite,104 this is [VI 255] true only insofar as he feels himself superior to other people, but the rest of what he says is comic as soon as one gives it any thought. Imagine an individual who is speaking with God in prayer and now it occurs to him to speak as follows: I fast three times a week, pay the tithe of mint and cumin.105 It is altogether comic, like the man who lay in the ditch and thought he was riding horseback. In other words, the Pharisee thinks he is speaking with God, whereas from what he says it is clear and distinct enough that he is speaking with himself or with another Pharisee. If, for example, a saloonkeeper were to stand in a church and talk this way with God in prayer, saying: I am not like the other saloonkeepers, who give only the prescribed measure; I give generous measure, and in addition that extra at the New Year—he is not thereby a hypocrite, but he is comic instead, since it is clear that he is not speaking with God but with himself qua saloonkeeper or with one of the other saloonkeepers. Therefore, one should never appeal to God for help with a wish, because one thereby binds oneself absolutely. That is, if the wish is not granted, God and I are not therefore quits, by any means, for that, after all, must be left to God, but I am obliged to hold to my word. I must at all times firmly maintain that it was and is my only wish, so earnestly, so eternally my only wish that I dared to give it a religious expression. In other words, if after the passage of some time I come with a new wish and promptly send for God again just as fussy parents send for the physician for nothing, what then? Then I have made a fool of God and also made manifest that I am a comic character who, far from being a hypocrite, assumed that to pray to God was the same as petting papa on the cheek and saying: Bitte, bitte [Please, please].

  Here ends the report; my understanding has received its tribute—now I owe it nothing. Come now and stay with me, you, my beloved pain! Externally she cannot now be mine (or were it possible, oh, if it were possible!), but the thought that spiritually she might not be where I am confuses everything for me. Can one human being, then, not understand the other; is there, then, no equality in the religious? —Why did I sweep her along out into the current with me, why did I make myself guilty of applying a standard to a girl’s existence that only disturbs both of us! Well, now, now it is too late. Even if everything turns out all right and she really does help herself out of her misery or never was so deeply immersed in it, for me the religious nevertheless is so much the true meaning in [VI 226] life that it terrifies me if she is healed only in temporal categories. If one does not have this kind of concern, it is easy enough to retire into empty, glittering glory, like a chosen one; but if my, if you like, high standard has disturbed her life, then she in turn holds me with her, if you please, lesser standard; she with her lesser standard is a mighty sovereign to me, because without her I am unable to complete any view of life, since through her I sympathize with every human being. For me, without much knowledge of people, it has been my comfort and likewise my victory over life, my relief from the differences in life, that one may require the religious of every individuality. And yet here I have run up against an individuality from whom I am not sure I dare to require this, to whom I might be doing a wrong thereby. But on the other hand, if just one single individuality like this exists, consequently if religiousness is supposed to join hands with genius and talent,106 then I am powerless, for this thought is really my life’s idea, which gives me the bold confidence not to envy the outstanding and the talented, the calmness of mind not to be alarmed to the point of irresoluteness by the misery of someone who externally is more miserable than I am.

  To go on. Suppose, when all is said and done, she perhaps admired me more than she loved me; suppose she cherishes the dismal thought that I was an important personage. Then how difficult it will be for her, perhaps at one time intoxicated with a fantasy dream that I worshiped her, to recover from such an impression. And here again it is my fault that she is humiliated in this way! When one does not have such an anxious concern, then I can well understand that it is tempting to be counted among the elite, the object of much attention. This does not tempt me: I wished to be a rank-and-file soldier, indistinguishable from all the rest.

  Fearing that she would misunderstand and would venture out into the infinite, I do not even dare to give my external existence a proper religious expression. She is unable to do that, not yet. What will save her, as I thought at first and still do, is a certain healthiness of temporality. I am convinced that even in the most crucial moment, when I made the separation between us, she did not comprehend resignation. Either she believed: now I shall die and then it will be over, but that is not resignation; or she hoped altogether spontaneously, but that is not resignation; or she picked herself up internally by virtue of her natural healthiness and was stimulated precisely now to take hold of temporality—but that is not resignation.

  [VI 227] Be still, then. It is a matter of being as insignificant as possible. Any suggestion from me would merely confuse and, most dangerous of all, would perhaps help momentarily. She must, however, be stimulated lest her suffering state become habitual. Her suffering state—I really do not know for sure whether she is suffering.

  Reflection, however, is utterly inexhaustible. It acts just the way Tordenskjold107 did: it uses the same troops—when they have marched by, they turn down a side street, don another uniform, and thus the parade goes on—the countless garrison.

  February 12. Morning.

  A year ago today. She is not inattentive when I read to her from some religious book; I myself am growing more and more in the direction of the religious. As yet I cannot attain enough freedom from care to express love more erotically, nor do I find it in my heart to do so. First comes the hard part—the pleasure of being in love will no doubt come later.

  If only I have not made the whole scheme too big, if only the whole thing is not too serious for her, even though all religious moroseness and severity are foreign to my nature, and especially with regard to her, whose presence makes me as gentle as possible.

  108So I also speak a bit more lightly to her; I converse. For me this conversation truly has a charm I had never suspected. What pleasure it is when I think of the future, for in my eyes this conversation will continue to have something so appealing, something so refreshing for my soul, that I crave no other balm than this. She is as good as entirely without reflection, but she does not chatter, either: she says one thing and then another as it occurs to her. My reflection instantly seizes upon what she said, a little modification, and I have transferred it over into my sphere, and in this way the conversation goes by turns. Then she says something in her spontaneous way, a little modification, sometimes just a change of tone, and I am satisfied by the remark and have enjoyment over it. She cannot understand how such a comment by her can amuse me so much; however, she seems really gratified out of joy over the intimated high spirit that prevails in the conversation. She finds satisfaction in expressing herself, and then is surprised to see her remarks as the object of so much attention; I understand [VI 228] some level of reflection, add to it, rejoice over her—and thus we are both gratified. I do actually seem to be discovering that I have some qualities that could make me into an excellent husband: I have a sense for insignificant matters; I have a memory for trifles; I have some talent in introducing a bit of meaning—all of which is very good over the passage of time. If I only knew how I could become a model husband, I would spare neither time nor energy. But my trouble is that in my inclosing reserve I have an elemental flaw. And for me to be something by halves is a bitter pill.r />
  February 13.109 Midnight.

  If only something might happen. To maintain one’s soul in ecstasy week after week, to maintain all my countless reflections ready to leap, to have everything ready, ready at any moment because one cannot know whether it is going to be used or when it is going to be used or what is going to be used!

  110Today I saw her. She was pale. Oh, if one’s soul is filled with anxiety, if through this one has a sense for portents, then such paleness can have significance. Macbeth becomes furious simply because a messenger coming with an unfavorable report is pale,111 but in this case the paleness itself is the report. And yet the medical report is that in general she feels well—at least so I heard at the Hansens, where the physician was present and where she was being discussed, for when I by reason of the relationship between her family and the Hansens and the presence of the physician had a suspicion and repeated the words as a question: Who is it who is feeling so well (the physician had said these words just as I entered), they became embarrassed. And when I, not without some sarcasm, said that it did not amaze me if a physician was himself surprised at having said what he so seldom says—she feels well—but who is it, then, the physician recovered his composure and answered: Ah, it was Mrs. Fredriksen. Good Lord, I replied, Mrs. Fredriksen! Has she been ill? It was she whose husband was the judge in Skanderborg, and who later was transferred here to Sjælland. How strange etc. Then I conversed for a full [VI 229] hour with the esteemed family and the physician about the lady in question. It was obvious that for them the situation was as painful as it could be. Then the physician left, and I turned the conversation to the physician and the many families for whom he was the family physician, but said that I had never known that he was Mrs. Fredriksen’s physician. As long as the physician was present, I did not dare say this, for it was very possible that he had spoken the truth, but the family may not have known it and knew, on the other hand, that he had resorted to a subterfuge. This way one never lacks a topic for conversation. But it was of her they were speaking: I am certain of that, for I knew that a half hour before the physician had been at her house and undoubtedly had come straight from there. So this is the medical report. On the other hand, I saw that she was pale. What torment to have to observe a phenomenon when the phenomenon itself changes in relation to the observer.

  112At one time she had wanted to be something extraordinary—an artist, writer, a virtuoso, in short, to shine in the world. It was indeed possible—at least it is psychologically correct that an unhappy event can be a decisive impetus in this direction. True enough, but I never comprehended how she got this idea and how she could misunderstand herself in this way—as lovable as she was, she was not particularly talented. If she had been talented, I certainly would have discovered it, for my depression would promptly have seen in it an additional suffering, because I would have understood that she was bound to have enormous claims on life. But a catastrophe can certainly transform a person, and this wish, this hankering could perhaps be a valid presentiment in her soul. No wonder I did not understand it, I who from earliest youth have lived in the continual contradiction between 113seeming to be talented in comparison with the particular individual and secretly being convinced that I was good for nothing.

  I am free and independent, unemployed, the servant of no man, of no other woman, of no conditions of life. I lie along the shore in my boat and wonder whether some phenomenon will show up out there. If she could emerge that way as an object of admiration, that would suit me fine, it would be the happiest existence I could imagine—secretly to see her admired, secretly to stake my last thought and my last penny so that the admiration could be jubilant. How impatience already boils within me! I can coax people, I can lie, demonstrate everything, flatter, squeeze the hands of the journalists, write articles day and night myself—and admiration, after all, is for sale for money and for sagacity. I give up everything; it would be my happy fate to work secretly for her. And when it is achieved, when pain has energized her soul, when fortune and [VI 230] favor and flattery compete with each other to adorn the honored one, when her soul swells to the point of overweening pride—and she then passes by me triumphantly, then I shall dare to look calmly at her, my gaze will not be able to disturb her, for life will certainly have vindicated her against me.

  114But still one must have a little something to hold on to. It will be a long while before I run after anonymous novels again—the last one made me really feel the ridiculousness of my fancy. If I have not learned anything else from it, I have gained some idea of how reviews come about. I have never been able to take seriously the idea of the work of a reviewer, but merely on the vaguest suspicion that she could be the writer (for rumor had it that it was by a woman), I set everything in motion to convince people that it was something superlative.

  February 20. Morning.

  115A year ago today. No, I cannot understand it in any other way than that I am making her unhappy. There is and continues to be a vast misrelation between us. She does not understand me, and I do not understand her; she cannot rejoice in what gives me joy and cannot sorrow over what gives me sorrow. But I began this, so I will persevere, but I insist on being honest. I confess to her that I regard her relationship with me as a sacrifice on her part; I have asked her forgiveness for sweeping her along out into the current. More I cannot do. I really never dreamed that I would ever humble myself this way before a human being. But of course it is certainly not before her that I humble myself; it is before the relationship and the ethical task; yet I do have to prevail upon myself in order to say it to a human being, and if I do say it, my frame of mind is not exactly that of saying it as a joke. But basically it does not make much difference, for since she does not come to know a word she cannot understand it, but here again is the misrelation.

  February 20. Midnight.

  116I saw her today on Hauser Square.117 Everything as usual. [VI 231] It is very fortunate that she sees me so often. I myself am sure that I never go out of my way, not one foot, in order to see her. I dare not: my existence must express complete indifference. 118If I dared to do it, and if I did not have my hypochondriacal keenness for keeping secret watch over myself and for having intimations of possibilities, I would have taken up residence in her neighborhood long ago merely to compel her to see me. There is nothing more dangerous for a girl in her condition than to avoid seeing someone, and thereby to give the imagination the opportunity to dream.

  119She must be stimulated so that she does not get listless and become neither one thing nor the other, neither grieve nor win. Now I suppose it will succeed. My correspondence by letter with a friend in the country, that is, a person whom I do not trust, is shared in copy with my confidant, who plagues me. Naturally it was done under the pledge of absolute silence on the part of my friend, and the confidant in turn entrusts it in writing to his sweetheart in Holbæk,120 with the demand of absolute silence, and so it travels, all right, and at top speed. We sometimes complain of the slowness of the postal service—when one is so lucky as to have a friend’s girlfriend carry the letters, they travel at top speed. I suppose that she will run on foot to the metropolis just to trot out her secret for the information of the woman for whom it is destined. Indeed, there is nothing in the world more trustworthy than a friend one is sure will betray everything confided to him, nothing more trustworthy if only one is careful about what is confided to him. It is unsafe to ask a friend to tell this or that, but if one confides to him under the pledge of secrecy something one wishes to come out, then one can be absolutely sure, for then it must come out. Furthermore, it is a rare good fortune if in turn such a friend has a friend, and in turn this friend has a girlfriend—then it travels with the speed of lightning. 121Thus my correspondence is transmitted by way of friendship.

  The more one suffers, the more sense, I believe, one gains for the comic. Only by the most profound suffering does one gain real competence in the comic, which with a word magically transforms the rational creat
ure called man into a Fratze [caricature]. This competence is like a policeman’s self-assurance when he abruptly grips his club and does not tolerate any talk or blocking of traffic. The victim protests, he objects, he insists on being respected as a citizen, he demands a hearing—immediately there is a second rap from the club, and that means: Please move on! Don’t stand there! In other words, to want to stand there to protest, to demand a hearing, is just a poor, pathetic wretch’s attempt to really amount to something, [VI 232] but the comic turns the fellow around, just as the policeman who gets him turned around in a hurry and, by seeing him from behind, with the help of his club makes him comic.

  Yet this sense of the comic has to be acquired so painfully that one cannot quite wish to have it. But the sense of the comic presses in on me particularly every time my suffering brings me in contact with other people.

  The correspondence contains a confidential communication concerning my love affair. Everything is correct, especially the names and years and days—the rest for the most part is fiction. I am fully convinced that she herself cannot possibly have a reliable conception of me and of our relationship; I have confused the affair for her far too much for that and changed it into a witch’s letter122 that can mean just anything. Everything must be left up to her, and on no account must she have an authentic interpretation from me, for then she would never be healed. That she might be able to find herself completely again is my greatest wish for her, and I shall risk everything for that. Just a single reliable word of instruction from me would be enough for her to preserve in secret an impression of me that she must not have.